


The Spectrum of Possibilities

by Drogna



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Autism, Autistic Rip Hunter, F/M, RipFic, RipWeek 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25021168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drogna/pseuds/Drogna
Summary: Michael was struggling with everything, which was strange, because Mary was certain that he was highly intelligent. When he was first brought to her, at the age of seven, he’d been a bright child who didn’t know that stealing was wrong, kept himself to himself and hadn’t really had much luck making friends amongst the other children at the Refuge. She needed to work out how to help him.
Relationships: Gideon & Rip Hunter, Miranda Coburn/Rip Hunter
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	The Spectrum of Possibilities

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rip Hunter Appreciation Week 2020 Day 3 - Playing Favourites. My favourite headcanon is that Rip Hunter is autistic.

The past, like the future, is indefinite and exists only as a spectrum of possibilities.

\- Stephen Hawking

***

It was Mary Xavier who spotted it, because who else paid the kind of attention to him that she did. Michael had been eight and he was struggling with everything, which was strange, because Mary was certain that he was highly intelligent. When he’d first been brought to her, at the age of seven, he’d been a bright child who didn’t know that stealing was wrong, kept himself to himself and hadn’t really had much luck making friends amongst the other children at the Refuge.

Often, he’d watch the other children, and play near them, doing the same thing that they were doing but on his own. That occasionally caused trouble because the other children didn’t like to be copied, but she initially saw it as him trying to join in with their games but being too shy to ask them if he could.

She’d seen it before, or she thought she had, sometimes the children that came to her just needed time to come out of their shell. Most of the orphans were malnourished, if not starving, and usually had been in difficult circumstances. They were scared, they found it hard to trust, possibly they’d been abused, and they often hoarded food. So, she’d waited, given him time to find his feet and feel like the Refuge was safe and she was on his side.

She spent a year watching him get worse and not better. It wasn’t a straight line, some things improved for a bit and then deteriorated, and sometimes something got worse for a while and then leapt ahead. She got to know him very well. He was very smart according to all the academic tests that the Time Masters set for their children. His room was always unusually well ordered, although not exactly what Mary would have called tidy. He preferred what Mary described as “ordered chaos”. Everything had a place, but sometimes that place was on the floor. There were some things that she was not allowed to touch, and Michael would literally have a screaming tantrum if she did. He loved his routine and became anxious if anything changed, unless Mary gave him good warning.

At first, he was very quiet, hardly saying a word, but as he became more settled, he began to say more. If you got him onto the right subject, he would talk forever until someone said enough. He loved history, and Mary encouraged that because it could only help with his Time Master training. He especially liked dates and one day she asked him the date of the execution of Anne Boleyn which he had learnt about the previous day.

“It was Friday May 19th, 1536,” replied Michael, only eight years old.

“How do you know it was a Friday?” she asked. That had not been in the information that she had given him.

“I just worked it out,” said Michael, with a shrug.

Mary searched her database and found that he was entirely correct. Anne Boleyn had been executed on a Friday. That was something that she was going to remember, and it definitely made Mary begin to think about all the ways that Michael wasn’t like the other children.

He liked to know the rules, in whatever situation he was in and once he did then he would stick to them rigidly, although it was interesting which rules he regarded as superseding others. He also wasn’t above using the rules to his advantage or manipulating things for the best outcome.

Mary began to realise that despite herself, he was one of her favourites, and she tried not to have favourites. He worried her though, she was beginning to wonder if there was something more to his behaviour than just that he was bright, shy and extraordinarily polite. He still had no friends amongst the other children and would rather talk to her than any of his peers. Many days he just preferred to be alone in his room, coming out only for lessons and meals. He usually had to be reminded about those too, because he’d got himself so engrossed in whatever it was that he was doing.

The Time Masters kept an eye on all their recruits and weren’t pleased when one of them floundered. Mary knew she had a limited period of time to get her adopted son back on track. She began doing research into why Michael was different, and she was surprised that she settled on the likely cause quite rapidly. Everything fitted, and when she took Michael to a psychiatrist, not one that worked for the Time Masters, they concurred.

Michael was autistic. The psychiatrist had described him as having “High Functioning Autism Spectrum Disorder”. It was a label for a set of behaviours and one that Mary didn’t particularly like, but at least she knew what she was dealing with now.

“Am I in trouble?” asked Michael, once they had returned to the Refuge. He looked quite worried.

“No! Absolutely not,” said Mary. “You’re just different. And that means you see the world in a way that other people don’t.”

Michael frowned. “You took me to see a doctor. Am I sick?”

He was very good at spotting details and making connections. She really did need to be careful about that because he noticed a lot of things that other children wouldn’t have.

Mary shook her head. “No, not sick. But you have a condition that is called Autism. It’s a sensory processing disorder…” she stopped as she realised that Michael couldn’t possibly understand what she was telling him. He still looked puzzled.

Michael was perceptive but she sometimes forgot that he was also only eight because he frequently seemed older. She tried again to explain.

“Your brain sees patterns and makes connections that a lot of other people’s brains don’t, and that’s because it’s wired differently. And because your brain is different that means you have trouble with things that other people find easy, like understanding how to make friends, and you get overwhelmed easily by too much input to your senses.”

Michael nodded. “But you can make it better? Like you did when I had Scarlet Fever?”

Mary shook her head. “This is part of you, and it’s what makes you who you are. There is no cure for autism because it isn’t an illness or a disease. Think of it like a superpower, but all superheroes have weaknesses, and so do you.”

Michael raised his eyebrows in a delightful gesture of surprise.

“Oh, okay, like Superman and Kryptonite.”

Mary nodded. “Exactly, but we can work on some of the things you find hard, now that we know what’s going on. It’s also very important that we don’t tell the others or the Time Masters. This is a secret, like Superman has a secret identity that he never tells anyone about.”

“Why does it have to be a secret?”

“Because the Time Masters may not understand that this is a superpower, they might see it as a disability, and they want you to grow up and become a great Time Master. I don’t think they’d understand, and then they might send you back to where they found you,” said Mary.

She didn’t like to think of the other things that they might do. Recruits that were considered unable to pass the training to become fully fledged Time Masters were used in a variety of ways, and some of those ways were less than pleasant. She was certainly not going to burden him further with that though.

Michael paled a little in any case and nodded again. “I won’t tell anyone. Can I have some books about Autism?”

Mary smiled at him. “Of course. I will find some for you as soon as we get back to the Refuge, but only read them when you’re alone.”

He nodded and smiled. He really did love books.

She had her work cut out for her. Michael would have to learn how to behave like a neurotypical person, and that would sometimes mean he had to be uncomfortable. She would have to teach him how to cope with the world. She was going to hate herself by the end of this, she knew it, but the alternative was worse for Michael.

“I’ll also give you some special lessons,” said Mary. “We need to make sure that you behave just like the other children, and no one will ever know that you’re different.”

Michael looked very serious before he spoke. “I can do it.”

She could see the worry in him though.

“Can I hug you?” she asked.

He nodded. She was the only person that he ever really allowed to do this. He always backed away if anyone else tried, and she had always asked for permission as soon as she realised that he didn’t like it.

Mary pulled him into a hug. “It will be fine. We’ll do this together.”

Michael hugged his mother back. “Okay.”

***

The Time Master Academy didn’t give Rip much time to himself, but they didn’t encourage socialising either. He had managed to do well to even get here, given that he had done it all with a very well-hidden disability. Although he much preferred his own and his mother’s label of “superpower”. His ability to remember patterns and see detail was something that had been very useful in his training so far.

His teamwork skills were less good, but he would manage to pass that aspect of the course which was all that was required. The top ten of the class would become members of the elite cadre of Time Captains who were sent out alone, with only their ship and its AI to help them on their missions. Team work was not necessary for that role, and Rip was already well on his way to becoming one of the favoured few.

Rip remembered his mother teaching him about eye contact. He had found anything but the shortest of eye contact quite uncomfortable as a child, but a lot of practice meant that he had worked out the rules. Much of his childhood had been about working out the social rules of a situation and then committing them to memory. His mother had impressed upon him the importance of not appearing to be autistic, but the problem was that his brain was still wired differently to everyone else’s. Spending his entire life putting on an act took its toll and his mother had also warned him about that. She’d given him coping mechanisms, and explained that he needed time alone to recharge. Finding that time was sometimes difficult.

However, some things he could get away with, such as his singular focus and ability to spot patterns where neurotypical people couldn’t. That just made him seem smart. He didn’t have to make huge numbers of friends, just one or two was fine. Introverts were not unusual. He didn’t need to spend all of his time with others being sociable, just enough to seem like it was something he actually enjoyed. Stimming was a necessary act to keep him grounded, but he couldn’t rock or flap because that looked too _weird_ , too autistic, however no one worried if he chewed a pencil or tapped a finger on his knee or even listened to a piece of music over and over, as long as he wore headphones to do it. He worked within the boundaries that he had, but some he was able to push.

His days after leaving the Refuge were the hardest, but he viewed them as a test of the training that Mary Xavier had provided him with. He had lost his routine, and his anxiety was high, but again his mother had prepared him. He organised his new room carefully, making it as close to his room in the Refuge as possible. He had been allowed to bring some things with him, and those were how he staved off the worst of his anxiety. He kept one of his Mother’s handkerchiefs in his pocket, using it as a tactile stimulus. Sometimes he felt as if he couldn’t work out where his fingers ended and touching something familiar helped with that.

At this moment he would have liked to have been able to reach for it, but that was impossible whilst stood at attention. It was inspection day, and all the cadets were lined up in the corridor outside their rooms, awaiting the Time Master’s verdict on the state of their quarters. He lightly tapped his finger on the cloth of his uniform, and that was enough for now. It quietened the anxious feeling that rose within his chest.

“Lieutenant Hunter,” said the Time Master, as he inspected his room, “at least I can always rely on you to have your quarters in order.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied Rip, staring straight ahead, no need for eye contact here.

There was a tick on the clipboard, and then the man was moving down the corridor to the next room to be inspected.

“Lieutenant Coburn,” said the Time Master. “Not a bad showing, but I expect you to have your spare uniform pressed and your footlocker ordered next time.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lieutenant Coburn.

Her name was Miranda and he had already done his best to make friends with her, identifying her as someone he could easily find excuses to spend time with but also someone who would probably have other friends who would take up her time meaning his company was not missed. He found social interaction with anyone to be like a constantly moving ship’s deck in a stormy sea. Even his mother hadn’t been able to give him all the knowledge he needed to negotiate every situation. Miranda seemed to like him though, even making suggestions that they should study together and work on assignments as a pair.

He liked her. She seemed to wear her emotions openly making her easy to interpret. She definitely had inner depths but she had never lied to him or manipulated him, which some of the recruits had tried to do. He was top of his class for a reason and she was right there with him, forcing him to be better just so that he could keep up with her or make her keep up with him.

He risked a glance sideways and found Miranda doing the same. She stuck her tongue out at him, quickly and then the gesture was gone as she returned to standing at attention. The Time Master instructor had moved on to the next room and noticed nothing. Rip blinked and then made the same gesture in return with a small smirk, before also returning to his stance.

“Lieutenant Hunter!” came the shout. “You will see me in my office after inspection to discuss your behaviour.”

He rolled his eyes internally. This was what happened when you copied the actions of a neurotypical person without thinking them through properly. Miranda had got away with it but he should have known that it was a foolish action. He should know better than to let his guard down like that.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

He was put on Kitchen punishment detail for the next week. He probably could have got himself a lighter sentence if he had told them that Lieutenant Coburn had started it, but he had never been a tell-tale and had no plans to start now. Even on the streets of London he had learned that telling tales was not a desirable trait, even if he did prize honesty in most situations. Quite frankly, a week of evenings cleaning the kitchens was far from the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

He returned to his room later that evening, tired and smelling faintly of disinfectant, to find Miranda sat in the corridor by the door of his quarters with a book on her lap.

“What are you doing here? I’ve just spent the last hour washing dishes thanks to your stunt earlier,” he said.

Miranda got to her feet at least having the good grace to look a little chastised.

“Oh come on, it was hardly my fault that you were led astray,” she said. “You make your own decisions.”

“I suppose I do,” admitted Rip.

“But you didn’t turn me in and I’m very grateful for that,” said Miranda. “I really needed the extra time this evening to finish this off.”

She handed him a small package, flat and no more than fifteen centimetres square. Rip frowned and looked down at the item, wrapped in what appeared to be lined paper from an exercise book and tied with string, sort of like a birthday gift. It was a little strange to say the least and very unexpected.

“Personal possessions are limited to items brought from the Refuges and must be cleared by the academy proctors,” said Rip, holding the item.

Miranda just grinned at him with amusement, and then shook her head.

“It’s a gift, Rip, open it,” said Miranda.

Rip was unsure what to do for a moment, but he had been taught to be polite. He carefully undid the string and opened the package, being sure not to tear the paper. Inside was a pocket square with careful embroidery on the corner that formed the letters “RH”.

It was very like the one that he kept in his pocket so that he could run a finger over the stitching. For a moment his heart sank. Did Miranda know what that meant or was this just a genuinely thoughtful gift?

“Where I came from, women were taught to do embroidery,” said Miranda. “It’s not really a skill that I’ve ever had a particular use for until now. I just noticed that you always have a handkerchief in your pocket and thought maybe you could use a second.”

“Thank you,” said Rip, his voice suddenly emotional. “It is very kind. You didn’t need to do this… I don’t need anything for not turning you in.”

Miranda laughed this time.

“It’s not for _that_ ,” said Miranda. “It’s because we’re friends. We’ve been spending a lot of time together, working together on papers and training exercises. We make a good team.”

Rip allowed a smile to grace his own lips.

“We do, don’t we?” he said, almost a little surprised by that revelation. “Although perhaps I shouldn’t be quite so willing to follow your example when it comes to breaking the rules.”

“Nonsense,” said Miranda. “Everyone needs to have a little fun sometimes.”

He hadn’t really expected to make a genuine friend, but Miranda appeared to be truly interested in a real friendship. Rip felt like he could almost be himself with her.

“I don’t have anything for you,” said Rip, suddenly wondering if he’d done something wrong. “I don’t even know what you’d like…”

Miranda put a finger on Rip’s lips stilling him. The touch surprised him, but he didn’t shy away. It was Miranda and whilst he would prefer not to be touched by most people, Miranda was a friend. He didn’t mind when she was close.

“I’d like know how you manage to organise your footlocker so that it can fit everything into it for starters,” said Miranda, still smiling.

Rip nodded.

“That I can definitely help with,” said Rip, feeling the cloth of the handkerchief between his fingers. “After you.”

Miranda positively smirked at the turn of phrase, but led the way back to her quarters. Before long he had helped her to sort out her footlocker and the two of them had also given her quarters something of a rearrangement in the hopes of helping her avoid further demerits for having quarters that weren’t tidy. It wasn’t a large room, like his own next door, and they were in close proximity when he bumped into her.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

Miranda said nothing and put a hand on his shoulder. Rip looked at her face and realised that he could read her emotions precisely. He leaned in and kissed her, on the lips. It was little more than a peck.

For a moment time stood still and he wondered if he’d misread the signals. Then Miranda leaned in and this time she kissed him. His eyes widened, and suddenly he was taking a step back.

“We can’t…” he began.

“We just did,” said Miranda.

“But there are rules against relationships,” said Rip.

“There are rules against a lot of things,” said Miranda. “Including sticking your tongue out at the training officer.”

Rip rolled his eyes.

“It’s hardly the same,” said Rip.

“It’s still breaking a rule, besides they have to catch us first,” said Miranda.

“You don’t understand,” said Rip. “I don’t belong here… I’m a fraud, I’ve been faking it all this time. If I do anything to attract attention, that could be the moment they work it out.”

Now Miranda stopped and looked at Rip, examining him.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Miranda, she gently edged him to the bed and they sat down, shoulders touching.

Rip took in a deep breath. His mother had told him to tell no one, but he doubted that she could have foreseen this moment.

“I’m not like the other cadets,” said Rip. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that I prefer my own company, and occasionally I’m a little slow on the uptake when it comes to jokes. You’re the only real friend that I’ve made amongst our fellow cadets.”

Miranda nodded, encouraging him to continue.

“It’s because I have a sensory processing disorder that means I find social interaction difficult. I have trouble reading social and emotional cues. I dislike change to an unusual degree, and a hundred and one things about the world make me anxious, especially continuous loud noises and bright lights. I am capable of dealing with all of these things, but I sometimes have to take time out to do that,” said Rip, his knee already bouncing because this was stressful.

He reached in his pocket for the handkerchief and instead found the one that Miranda had embroidered. Something dawned on Rip, as he pulled out the handkerchief. Miranda had known about the handkerchief and he’d thought he’d done a good job of hiding it. Perhaps he hadn’t been doing as well as he’d thought.

“And you can tell me what day of the week it was for any given date, which I always assumed was just a party trick, and you use sensory stimulus as a grounding mechanism,” said Miranda, her eyes widening with realisation. “You’re on the autistic spectrum. Which of course would disqualify you from becoming a Time Master if they ever find out what you’re hiding. How have you even got this far without them detecting it?”

“My mother didn’t think it was a good idea for them to find out, so she helped me to hide it. I thought she was giving me classes in how to be normal, but really it was therapy to help me deal with the world. We worked out acceptable things that I could manage and still be who I was. Rules that I could follow. How to make eye contact, how to read a face, how to spot when someone is joking… everything that I would need. She suggested that I should always make one friend in any social group, and she instructed me how to do that. I didn’t really expect to actually like the person I chose, or to feel what I feel about you. I don’t even know what to do about it,” said Rip, his tone increasingly despairing.

He turned to look at Miranda.

“And I should not have told you any of this!” he exclaimed, suddenly horrified by his own indiscretion.

He shifted back on the bed, so that they were no longer touching.

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Miranda. “I’m not going to tell anyone. Actually, I’m all the more impressed by you now that I know. I’m just lucky that you chose me to be your friend.”

Miranda leaned in and kissed him again.

“We’ll work it out together,” said Miranda. “Two of us together will be much more effective at keeping your secret.”

Rip was still somewhat in shock.

“Do you mean that?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Miranda. “I just kissed you, which means that I really like you.”

“I do know that,” replied Rip. “I’m just a little slow on the uptake sometimes.”

“Yes, you really are,” said Miranda, “because we really should be kissing rather than talking right now.”

Rip’s lips turned up at the corners, but he didn’t need a second invitation.

***

There was no time at the Vanishing Point and therefore no date for their first kiss. All Rip knew was that Miranda had died on a Friday in November in 2166.

When Rip lost Miranda and Jonas, he grieved both for them as people he had loved but also for them as a part of his life. They left a hole that he could never fill, and he could not abide it. Even if his love for them had burned less brightly, he could not have left them dead without a fight.

He had ultimately failed though. He had killed Vandal Savage but there was no way to bring back his wife and child. He had also destroyed the Time Masters, so even they were gone now. His entire life had been turned upside down in the space of just less than a year, and for someone who had never been terribly good at having his plans derailed, this was a lot to take in. Everything felt wrong in a way that grated against his inner being, and there was no escaping it in any aspect of his life.

He was used to working alone and having the Legends on board was a constant irritant that he had never wanted to endure. It felt like he never had any space anymore. There were too many people on the Waverider and they kept wanting him to join in with film night or to join the cooking rota or asking if he’d take them to some important historical event.

Everything was too much. It wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping. He pressed play on the message again. It had been Miranda’s last message to him and he should have known that something was wrong. He should have gone to her immediately, but he’d been busy, tying up the loose ends of a mission to return a Green Lantern ring to its rightful owner. He knew now that Druce had just been keeping him busy, but at the time he’d thought he was judging his priorities correctly. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

“Captain,” said Gideon.

She was a constant soothing presence in his life.

“Yes, Gideon,” he replied.

“It is time to eat,” said his AI.

“Thank you for the reminder, Gideon,” he said.

He pressed play on the message again.

He knew he was stimming. Repetition was soothing. He had developed many techniques over the years that he found helpful and passed for the actions of a neurotypical person. This was not one of those things. Pacing or listening to music was normal. Tapping a rhythm on a chair arm was normal. Watching the final message of his dead wife and son on repeat was not.

“Captain,” said Gideon.

“What is it, Gideon?” he asked, getting a little annoyed now.

“You need to eat,” said Gideon.

“Later,” said Rip.

“You have already missed an entire day’s meals,” said Gideon.

“I know, Gideon,” said Rip. “I will eat later, I promise.”

He would eat when the galley was empty, and he could ensure he wouldn’t run into anyone. He wasn’t fit company today.

“Captain,” said Gideon.

“I said that I’ll eat later!” he snapped at the AI.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say,” said the AI, somewhat crossly. “I wanted to suggest that you should tell the crew.”

“Tell the crew what?” asked Rip, and finally gave up on the current run through of the message and turned it off with the remote control.

“About your superpower,” said Gideon, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

She had always liked that nomenclature for his disability, ever since he’d plucked up the courage to take her into his confidence. He took a deep breath.

“I believe it would help the crew to function better as a team if they know that some small adjustments would improve your mental health,” Gideon continued.

“I don’t think they’d ever see me the same again,” said Rip. “And I’m not sure I want them to know. I’ve spent a long time hiding who I am and I don’t even know if I can be myself anymore.”

“You have always been yourself, Captain,” said Gideon. “It would help them to understand you.”

“Most people from the 21st Century only think of autism as Rain Man or picture children rocking in a corner or worse, they want to cure it,” said Rip. “I’m not even sure their preconceived ideas would let them include me into what they understand by the term autism.”

“You might be surprised,” said Gideon.

“No, they don’t need to know,” said Rip.

“What don’t we need to know?” asked Sara, as she rounded the corner, with Ray following her.

Rip looked up at the ceiling with accusation, as Jax, Stein and Mick also made their way into the parlour.

“You did that on purpose!” he said.

“I believe you forgot that you scheduled a team meeting for this time,” said Gideon.

So that was her way of owning up without actually agreeing, also it conveniently made it partly Rip’s fault that he had been discussing a private matter when the team were scheduled to be on the bridge. He cursed himself for losing track of time and falling into Gideon’s trap.

“Come on, Rip,” said Sara, “spill it. What are you hiding this time?”

Rip sighed and pushed himself to his feet, feeling like he was an old man. He was tired, and he probably should have done better about eating regularly.

“I have been finding things difficult lately,” he started.

“We understand, Rip,” said Ray. “You lost your family. You need time.”

“Indeed, but there is another dimension that you’re not aware of,” said Rip. “Gideon thinks you all need to know, so that you can make allowances, but I have never expected anyone to do anything differently for me. I am not to be pitied or coddled or fussed over. I made it through the Time Master academy without anyone being any the wiser.”

He found himself staring down at the table, and talking rapidly, almost trying to ignore the other people in the room.

“Rip, slow down,” said Jax. “You haven’t told us what’s wrong.”

Rip looked at Jax and realised that he was right, he hadn’t.

“Nothing is wrong. This is just intensely personal and I’ve never told anyone this except Miranda, Gideon and my mother,” said Rip.

“And you still haven’t told us,” said Martin, dryly.

Rip regarded Martin for a moment and then blurted out the words he needed to say before he thought better of it.

“I’m autistic,” he said. “I was diagnosed at the age of eight and ever since then I have hidden who I really was from the world and, especially, the Time Masters.”

“Not surprised,” rumbled Mick. “The Time Bastards would have sent you for cognitive reprocessing before you got anywhere near the academy.”

“Yes, I believe you’re right, Mr Rory,” said Rip, with a sharp glance at the man who had once been Chronos.

He leaned on the table, because he had honestly never really thought about what would have been done to him if he’d ever slipped up and revealed his secret. He tapped his fingers on the table. There was little point in hiding his need to stim from them now. He shut his eyes and tried to centre himself again, taking some deep breaths.

“Gideon, can you dim the lights,” said Ray.

“Yes, Dr Palmer,” said Gideon.

Rip opened his eyes and realised that the level of light was definitely better. Gideon would have dimmed the lights herself in a moment, but he was intrigued that Ray seemed to know that was the thing to do. The tapping slowed, and he stretched his muscles in his arms, allowing himself to feel the weight that leaned on the table.

“How did you know that would help?” asked Rip.

Ray shrugged.

“I’ve read around the subject,” said Ray. “I had a friend in college who used to do pretty much what you’re doing now, and when she got really overwhelmed she needed quiet and low light to feel better. She also had a habit of snapping at people who were trying to help her, just like you do sometimes.”

“Okay, but most of the time you don’t seem very autistic,” said Sara.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Rip, “I’ve spent many years learning how to hide my condition. My mother gave me a great deal of instruction in how to appear to be neurotypical, but we both knew that I was always going to be… not quite right. But I could live with appearing to be merely introverted and rude.”

“It actually explains quite a lot,” said Ray. “I should have guessed.”

“I’m intrigued now,” said Rip. “Why should you have guessed?”

Ray looked a little like he’d been caught in the headlights of an oncoming train. He looked around the room.

“Well, you know, the obsession with chasing down Vandal Savage, the Old West is definitely your special interest, your collection of memorabilia is immaculate and you hate it when we touch your stuff, oh, and you wear the same basic outfit every day,” said Ray.

“Yeah, and the meltdowns,” said Jax. “That’s a thing, right?”

Rip sighed and nodded. They were right of course, but it wasn’t exactly how he wanted to be reminded of his flaws.

“I suppose those do all count as autistic traits…” he murmured, leaning on the table with one arm now. Apparently, he hadn’t been hiding things as well as he’d thought.

“This is all quite interesting,” said Martin, “and I need to do some reading it appears, but the question should be how can we make your life easier, now that we know?”

Rip frowned. He really hadn’t expected anyone to ask that question. He thought about it for a moment.

“I need space,” said Rip. “And routine helps. Obviously, our job doesn’t allow for much planning for change when we’re on a mission, but I like to stick to a schedule when we’re onboard the Waverider. I think the thing that I need you to understand is that social interaction is tiring after a while. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you, but sometimes it’s just too much after a long mission. I need a moment to recover myself. I can deal with daily life and I have worked very hard to become a Time Master, but a lot of things that neurotypical people just do, I find take effort and are disproportionately wearing.”

The Legends exchanged looks and then nods.

“Okay, space and routine. We can do that,” said Sara.

“Regular meals and sleeping patterns also help,” said Gideon. “Perhaps you could take Captain Hunter to the galley for some food. He is apt to get engrossed in whatever he is doing and forget basic necessities.”

“Traitor,” grumbled Rip, just as his stomach reminded him that it was dinner time.

Sara laughed, and the other Legends also seemed to find this amusing.

“I think it’s my turn to cook,” said Ray. “I think the team meeting can wait until after we’ve eaten.”

“Agreed,” said Martin. “We could all do with a break.”

The Legends began to file out of the room and towards the corridor. Rip lingered for a moment in the parlour.

“Thank you, Gideon,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

“I told you it would be okay,” said Gideon, quietly.

Rip smiled.

“You are very wise,” he said. “Remind me of this next time I question your judgement.”

“As if I would let you forget,” replied Gideon.

Rip gave a rueful shake of his head and followed the Legends. Sometimes company was good. Sometimes he needed it. This was a useful reminder that the people who cared about him didn’t care about his neurodiversity. Mick had been entirely correct about the Time Masters and how they treated anything that threatened the status quo. He should have realised long ago that any organisation that didn’t accept him as he was must be rotten to the core. Miranda had known, and he regretted not following her example and leaving with her.

He touched the handkerchief in his pocket, and traced the embroidered edge with a finger. He would always have the memory of Miranda, who had loved him for who he was and helped him to make sense of the world. He would always have that, but now he had hope that there was a future ahead of him too. He didn’t need someone to take care of him, but it did help that he had people that cared.


End file.
